Chapter 17: Inauguration Day_The Scarlet Jane Files

My inauguration into the Guild of Hunters is set to take place at noon exactly. After the necessary preparations are made, and after the required paperwork is filled out, I am told I will present myself to the Executive Board of Directors and declare my intent of service to the men and women who hail over America’s most prestigious organization for Supernatural affairs.

 Terrified out of my mind, but exhilarated all the same, I pace my small apartment, all the while trying to avoid Shadow’s lingering gaze.

 “Can you stop staring at me?” I ask as I spin to face him.

 “I’m trying to understand why you’re nervous,” he replies.

 “I’m not nervous. I’m antsy.”

 “To what?”

 “Go after the monster that killed my mother.”

 “You are aware that there are certain procedures that need to be performed before a mark can be declared to a Hunter?”

 “Fuck procedure,” I reply. “I can kill this thing now. I’m going to do it now.”

 Shadow says nothing. Instead, he crosses his arms and watches me with his normal, calm stare.

 I let out a defeated sigh and collapse onto the bed.

 “I understand your concern,” the Wiper says, “but there needs to be necessary precautions taken before a Hunter can go after a mark.”

 “Like what?”

 “Transportation, for one. Adequate lodging, for two. Then there’s the matter of weapons, food, sending the proper Agent out to help investigate the claim. The bureaucracy demands things be done a certain way and in a certain order.”

 “But they want the vampire eliminated? Right?”

 “Naturally.”

 “And no one’s gone after this particular one?”

 “No one’s been assigned to the Central Texas and Louisianan territories yet.”

 “So you’re saying I could be?”

 “It’s certainly possible. The previous Hunter… unfortunately… died.”

 “From what?” I ask.

 “Cancer, of all things.”

 “How is that possible? I mean, you have the technology—”

 “The Agency does not have cures for stage-four malignant tumors, Scarlet.”

 “Oh,” I say and offer a frown of my own.

 I hadn’t considered the fact that, with my initiation into the Guild, there would come a passing of the torch, per se, a change of the guard. Except in this case, my future will be spent in the shadow of a Hunter whose passing was caused not by something of the Supernatural world, but by the physical.

 With a sigh, I expel a breath and push myself to my feet to look at the clock. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to wait an hour and a half.”

 “I can understand your frustration, Scarlet. You must be feeling so many different things.”

 Excitement. Dread. Exhilaration. Complete, undeniable fear. These things, and more, fuel my conscience, threaten to overwhelm me, to drag me down, beneath the dark blue waters. It is as if I am standing on an iceberg—a seal helplessly waiting on its surface—while beneath the waters a hunter circles. I can do only two things at this moment: wait or dive.

 Am I ready to do this? I ask myself. Am I really?

 Of course I am ready to do this. It is in my brain, my matter, my blood, the very fabric of my being. Everything within me is compelling me to go now—to flee the Agency and travel back to Louisiana to investigate the reason for my mother’s death and to destroy the creature that killed her.

 But you have no authority, I tell myself, to do it.

 Add on the fact that I have no money to get us there and I am left at the mercy of the Agency.

 Who may or may not even assign me to that territory, I tell myself.

 With a sigh, I cross my arms and settle back down at the edge of the bed, not wanting, or willing, to face my conscience.

 I know my time will come.

 I just wish it would come sooner.

 * * *

 We leave ten minutes to twelve and make our way toward the elevator, during which time my nerves begin to get the best of me. Though imbued with Supernatural strength, and emboldened by my newfound powers, I feel mortally weak in this moment—and as such begin to resort to anxious tics.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

 I bite my nail. Pace the elevator floor. Stop breathing for moments at a time, only to suck back in huge lungfuls of air.

 “Are you all right?” Shadow asks.

 And I respond with a nod, but even then, it does little to sate the untamable beast within my heart, my lungs, my brain.

 When we finally reach the floor labeled The Operating Room, I brace myself for what is to come, then wait until the door opens to reveal the pristine white lounge.

 White floors. White walls. White furniture.

 In the span of a second, I see an image of them splashed with blood.

 Then I am knocked from the vision by the rumbling steps of the living suit of armor stepping around the corner.

 “Special Agent Shadow,” the Wiper says, “here to accompany Hunter Scarlet Jane into the fold.”

 “Access granted,” the suit says.

 Shadow is the one to lead me forward—to compel me around the corner and toward the strange room within which dwells the board of directors.

 They wish to decide my fate, I tell myself.

 These enigmatic men and women—who, with bold looks and dark eyes, know everything and nothing at all. Here they are kings and queens within a glass castle, combating stones from afar before they can reach their thrones, while we—their mighty warriors, their great Hunters—are meant to defend them, all by laying our lives on the line, potentially sacrificing our functions, our futures.

 The beast of self-doubt takes hold out of nowhere. I have to pause to regain my composure.

 “Are you all right?” Shadow asks, turning to face me.

 “I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about me.”

 But it’s a lie. I know it is, and so does he. His frown is indicative enough.

 Thankfully, Shadow says nothing and turns and approaches the black stone doorway.

 Angels. Demons. Monsters. Saviors. 

 All wait for me on this stone facade, tempting me toward the greatest salvation.

 Or my untimely destruction, I muse.

 Stepping forward, Shadow knocks.

 I straighten my posture and take hold of the handles.

 When I pull the door open with strength and ease I find nearly impossible given that I am only a young woman of five foot four, I take a moment to settle my gaze on those within.

 There are seven in total, all wearing dark clothing and resembling something like wraiths pulled from the darkest corners of the world. Among them is Amelia Vanderoof—who, with her white coat and white pants, is the only one who sticks out. Alongside her stands Victor Delacroix and beside him Doctor James Mitchell. Several other Hunters are also present, though they wait along the far walls and watched me with indifferent eyes.

 “Scarlet Jane,” Amelia Vanderoof says.

 “Miss Vanderoof,” I reply.

 “You are here today to officially be inaugurated into the Agency’s Guild of Hunters, and to be assigned a territory over which you will domain. Do you understand the declaration made to you?”

 “Yes ma’am.”

 “Good.” She turns to Victor. “Mister Delacroix—the sword, please.”

 The man draws a long, golden blade from a scabbard at his side. Upon its cross-guard there lies a pair of angels, as if lost from Heaven and tormented in their desire to reach its sacred heights, while along its hilt slithers a snake, and at the bulbous end of the hilt is a golden apple.

 But it is not these things that capture my attention. Not as much as what runs along the blade’s length—a string of lettering I instinctively know is Latin. Though I cannot read the writing, I understand it to be important. This is only proven when the blade, exposed to light, begins to glow—a radiant white that causes me to blink.

 “Scarlet Jane,” Victor Delacroix says, rounding the table to stand directly before me. “It is the opinion of the Guild, and of the executive board of directors, that you—a young, courageous, and noble-hearted woman from Shreveport, Louisiana—be inaugurated into the Agency’s Guild of Hunters. I ask you this: do you have any reservations?”

 “No,” I say. “I have no reservations.”

 “Then bow before me to meet the sword of justice.”

 Justice, I think.

 That is what is written on the sword.

 Justice. 

 I know this to be the truth, if only in my heart. However, when I lift my head, I swear I see the word scrawled along the blade in plain English.

 It is at this moment that I fall to a knee, that I bow my head, that I await the sword to grace my shoulder; and it is with more honor than I could have ever felt possible that I allow the blade to touch my bare skin, which is shielded only by the tank top that covers my upper body. Delacroix touches first my left shoulder, then my right, then left again before sheathing the blade within its scabbard.

 Reaching down, Victor Delacroix takes hold of my shoulders, then lifts me gently, like a father would his infant child, and looks directly into my eyes. “Welcome to the Guild, Scarlet Jane. You are now officially a Hunter.”

 Applause meets me from the other Hunters—from the men and women who, once before me, had undergone these same trials, these same tribulations.

 But the joy is not meant to last.

 With a wave of her hand, Amelia Vanderoof silences the room, then turns her eyes on me. “Now,” she says, “comes the matter of your assignment.”

 I swallow a breath of air and hold it tight inside my chest.

 “Given the loss of Gregory Basteele,” Amelia Vanderoof says, “there is no one left to reign over the Central Texas and Louisianan territories. We, as the Agency, have decided you are to be assigned to these areas, Scarlet Jane, and that you are to protect and uphold the ancient laws the Agency upholds.”

 “Your first mark, Special Agent 136, will be the vampire that slew your mother in cold blood, thereby violating the act that prohibits Supernaturals from recklessly killing humans in places they might be sighted or where evidence might be left to be found by mortal-kind. You will receive exactly one month’s worth of provisions and will be accompanied by none other than Special Agent Shadow.”

 I turn to face Shadow.

 “Do you accept?” Amelia Vanderoof asks.

 “I accept,” I say.

 “Good. Then prepare yourself, Scarlet Jane, for the foe you seek is not one that can be allowed to escape—if not for humanity’s sake, then for your own.”

 Before I can turn to exit the room, Victor Delacroix steps forward. In his hand he carries a single golden chain, upon which dangles a vertical bar made of solid gold.

 “What’s this?” I ask as he reaches up to secure it around my neck.

 “Your Hunter’s mark,” the man replies. “Never lose it. Never forget it. Always remember it.”

 I reach up to wrap my hand around the single golden bar, which is no longer than one-and-a-half or two inches in length. Along its cold edges I feel unbridled power—and purpose, beyond anything else, that will allow me to make right what has been wronged.

 With a nod, and with pride I have never felt in my life, I exit the room, Shadow close behind.

 “Are you ready?” Shadow asks.

 “Yeah,” I reply. “There’s just one thing I have to do first.”

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Chapter 17: Inauguration Day